Thrice you pleaded guilty before
a jury of four:
a rake, two ruffians, and a flamboyant bore.
The charge is feticide
of the puerile mind
that lay un-hatched in its paltry womb.

Thrice you puffed away your yawns
at judge and pawns.
The prosecutor began to snort
at your flagrant contempt of court,
at contaminating nasal ports
with the stench of a voracious tongue.

Thrice you gaped at the bleeding dawn,
awaiting execution on a new-shorn lawn,
alone,
no stake or twigs
or a to-be-crucifix
visible within your dwindling zone.

Thrice you felt the dragon gore
inside the marrow of your thoughts,
ravishing your ores,
depleting your wisdom with a bony straw,
dipped through a hole
they surreptitiously drilled into your subconscious core.